


Crack in Everything

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Crack Treated Seriously, Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Monteriggioni, One Shot, Rebuilding, over powered characters, warning for sense of reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24587266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: "Huh. Guess I should've known. You're kind of predictable, Seventeen – give you the ability to choose one place and one time in the whole wide world and all of history… and like a lost dog, you come back here, always."
Relationships: Clay Kaczmarek | Subject 16 & Desmond Miles
Comments: 51
Kudos: 1324





	Crack in Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread by Nimadge, many thanks

"Huh. Guess I should've known. You're kind of predictable, Seventeen – give you the ability to choose one place and one time in the whole wide world and all of history… and like a lost dog, you come back here, always."

Desmond shrugs, not bothering to feel sheepish about it. "What can I say," he says, looking up to the ruins of Auditore Villa. "It's kinda the only place that feels like home."

Clay snorts beside him, hands in his pockets as he too peers at the villa and then at the city around them. He whistles, and it sounds almost impressed in a derisive sort of way, so Desmond follows his gaze away from the holes in the Auditore Villa, and into the town of Monteriggioni herself.

It's in the even worse state – compared to it, the villa had survived relatively intact. The city is in literal ruins – burned and crumbled with only a few of the buildings still standing and fewer with their rooftops intact. Most had caved in, walls crumbling into rubble, blocking the streets and spilling over the squares. It hadn't been that long since the attack, as there'd been no rebuilding, but long enough that the fires had long since cooled, and the occupation by the Papal forces had moved on.

"What time is it?" Clay asks, moving to the stone baluster around the artificial plateau where the villa sits. "Sometime after 1500, but when exactly?"

"1501," Desmond says, following him. "I wanted time after the attack, and after the Papal forces had moved on – and before the forces of Siena resettled it. That happens in a couple of years from now."

Clay hums in agreement, considering the ruins of the place before looking at him. "I figured you'd go to Ezio himself," he comments. "Since your _everything_ kind of revolves around the guy."

Desmond hums noncommittally and leans his elbows onto the baluster. It did, yeah. Partially because of the whole prophecy business that tied them together, and partially because Desmond just… sometimes it feels like there's more Ezio in him than there's anything else. Ezio's life was the longest, his experiences the most deeply rooted. Desmond's own 25 years of doing mostly nothing is not much in comparison.

There was something about Monteriggioni, though, that felt more personal, more… intimate. When it was destroyed, it wasn't Ezio who mourned its loss the most – it was Desmond.

"I want to rebuild this place," Desmond says quietly. "It tears me apart that it wasn't. That Ezio had to leave it, and that he never… never looked back, not really."

"Well, you have the power to do it, more than," Clay says and gestures his hand at the town. "Just wave your hand and fix it."

Desmond presses his lips together and looks down, at the staircase leading to the practice field, and to the villa. It was whole, at least – fire couldn't break it, and no cannonballs had impacted on it. "No," he says and pushes away from the baluster, stretching. "I want to do it by hand. Like an actual person."

Clay scoffs. "Sounds tedious," he says. "I'm not going to help you, just so you know."

"Wouldn't expect you to."

Desmond heads for the stairs, alone, trailing his hand down the wall as he goes. It's cold, but smooth, and feels sturdy and real under his fingertips. He's almost down the stairs and on the street level before he hears Clay making an irritated noise behind him and following. Together, they go about inspecting the town.

* * *

Desmond begins with the wells – it seems like a sort of place to start with, water management. Important for a small fortress, having a source of clean drinking water and all. There are three wells in Monteriggioni, two down in the town and one next to the villa, and both of the wells in the town have been broken – one accidentally, it looks like, something big had crashed into it, and the other intentionally with tools.

"Probably to make resettling this place more difficult," Desmond comments, while conjuring a bit of climbing gear in order to go down there and see what state the water itself would be.

"No points for effort," Clay says, sitting cross-legged on the street, watching him. "You could just magic it."

"Eh," Desmond says, hooking the carabineers in, and then making a hook, attaching it to the stone of the street to snap his paracord in. After making sure it would hold – of course it holds – Desmond kicks aside the worst of the scattered bricks and then goes down.

The first well is pretty bad. There's a body down there, a papal soldier, it looks like, and it's been there long enough to have ruined the water. Desmond considers going about fixing it the proper way, but ends up just deleting the guy's body and fixing the water the unusual way, even though it feels like all kinds of cheating to do it like that. He doesn't even need the water, really, so fixing it the cheaty-way is just cutting the corners really, but… bodies in drinking water. He'd rather not take any chances.

He fixes the well walls by hand, though, and spends some time making sure the water flows clean enough and the well bottom is deep enough for a bucket.

"You could make a pump," Clay comments thoughtfully when Desmond climbs out. "Makes everything so much easier, pumps."

"I could make plumbing too, if I wanted to," Desmond agrees. "But I'm not gonna."

"Of course not. Gotta preserve that genuine renaissance flair."

The next well is in a slightly better state, though the top is completely smashed. Desmond spends a day fixing it up enough to make it safe and rappels down to make sure the water is good and uncontaminated, before climbing back up, stretching. It's almost night.

"Wanna skip to the morning?" Clay asks.

Desmond considers that and then shakes his head. "No, I want to make street lamps. I don't suppose you could help me by finding candles in this mess?"

In answer, Clay conjures one from thin air with a snap.

Desmond gives him a flat look.

"I could go around, pretend to poke into the ruins and then, when your back turns, I'll snap them into existence and then turn around like, _Wow, Seventeen, would you look at this, there's so many just lying around here, isn't that amazing,_ " Clay says, his tone slightly mocking. "Would that make you feel better?"

"You know what, never mind," Desmond says, waving a hand. The candle in Clay's hand disappears, fading into a thin wisp of smoke. "Besides, that was a modern stearin candle. They don't have candles like that here."

In answer, Clay makes a beeswax candle and smiles smugly. Desmond flips him a finger, and goes to poke around the ruins.

Clay gets the last laugh, in the end, though. With how many fires there's been in the town, there are no candles to be found in the broken down houses – if there were ever any there, they'd all burned. "Besides," Clay says, hands behind his back. "I doubt the lights in old time street lamps were candles – they were lamps. Oil and wick. And there's none here, anyway, no one made spiffy street lamps here, so… what's the point?"

Desmond sighs. "Fine," he says. "Have it your way."

Clay grins smugly, lifting his hand to create the street lamps and Desmond skips them over to the next sunrise. "Spoilsport," Clay mutters, as the night gives away into sudden dawn, and light just flashes on all around them, as on the horizon over the side of the city walls, sun begins peeking out over the hills. "You cheated down the well."

"That was different – that was important," Desmond says and points a finger at him. "Don't make stuff from nothing."

"You're no _fun_."

"You could just _leave_."

Clay doesn't say anything to that.

* * *

Desmond is fixing the front of what had been the apothecary, when someone sneaks into the fortress. It's a little more than a vagabond – a kid, really, maybe eighteen years old and not in the best shape. Spooked by any noise, he pokes around the collapsed buildings near the front of the city, maybe looking for something to eat, when Desmond approaches him.

"Looking for something?" Desmond asks, and the kid jumps, stumbles, scrambles backwards and then runs away. Desmond looks after him as he legs it out through the city's open gates and then hums.

"Good job, spooked away your first potential citizen," Clay comments.

"You're my first citizen," Desmond says with a snort.

"Aww."

Shaking his head, Desmond rounds back to the villa, where the fruit trees are valiantly trying to live and flourish despite the fact that half of them are a little burnt. He cheats a little there – it's not the season for them to be making fruits – and ignores Clay's jeering while collecting armfuls of pears and plums and apples, and then pausing to consider how to carry them back to the front of the town. Should've thought to grab a bowl or something, somewhere.

"Here," Clay says, offering him a wicker basket. Desmond gives him a dubious look and Clay sighs. "I didn't make it – just didn't go to _get it,_ exactly. It's from one of the houses, look, it's half broken and everything. Just use the damn thing."

"Thanks," Desmond says, and fills the basket with fruit.

"So, you cheat for people?" Clay asks. "That's the line in the sand we're drawing, then? Poisoned well, cheat a little to make it safe. Hungry vagabond, cheat a little to make him food. That's the limit?"

Desmond shrugs and hauls the basket up to his shoulder, to take it back. "Feels like if you just handwave everything better, it will be – less, I guess," he says. "I didn't come to this time specifically because it's easy. But I don't want people to suffer just because I didn't fix something I have the power to fix it, even when it's cheating."

"Uhhuh," Clay says dubiously and shakes his head. "You got hangups, man."

"Pot, kettle."

Desmond leaves the fruit by the gates, and then, just to make sure it won't be taken the wrong way, puts up a bit of wood and writes on it with charcoal, "Take what you want, it's free!" hoping it looks friendly enough.

"You're going to attract birds that way," Clay comments.

Desmond shrugs. "I like birds."

* * *

It's a couple of days – and skipped nights, because Desmond refuses to let Clay create street lamps from thin air – before the kid comes around, looking awkward and scared, but also a bit hopeful maybe. He doesn't have shoes, and his clothes look – and smell – like they haven't been washed in weeks.

Desmond looks up from the wheelbarrow he'd been fixing, while Clay lounges about in the only thing he'd made – a sun chair. The kid is holding a fruit. "I don't want –" the kid starts, stops, thinks, and tries again. "I'm not _poor_. Or stupid. I can work for food."

"Okay," Desmond agrees. "Hand me that rock."

The kid blinks at that, looks at where he's pointing, and then picks up the rock. Desmond uses it to hammer a carefully carved bit of wood in place on the side of the wheelbarrow – it's a bit awkward and probably wouldn't hold forever, but Desmond's not cheating just to make a hammer and nails. "Okay," Desmond says and stands up, testing the wheelbarrow. The wheel holds and rolls, if with a bit of a list to the left, and it looks like the sides will hold too. "I'm clearing out the street over there. You can help me gather the bricks."

The kid looks at the fruit he's still holding, then shoves it into his pocket and follows Desmond. Together they fill up the wheelbarrow with the bricks that look most whole, and wheel them to the main street, which is the place Desmond is choosing to fix first.

"This used to be the smithy," Desmond says, motioning to the building. "We're going to fix it. The apothecary is already more or less fixed, and there's a solid back room, which is dry and clean. We'll make a bed for you there, and you can stay there until we have something better."

"Where do you sleep?" the boy asks.

"I don't. What's your name?"

The kid considers that dubiously for a moment. "Gilo," he says.

"Alright, Gilo. Let's pile up these bricks – I'll show you how to make mortar."

Clay watches the whole process with at first a vaguely sardonic look about him, then looking thoughtful, then wandering off to do something else. Desmond and Gilo are both smeared in makeshift mortar – which Desmond _maybe_ enhanced a bit by cheating, but it barely signifies as cheating, since the mortar paste already exists, he's just making it better – when Clay comes back with an armful of clothing.

"Don't look at me like that," Clay says, rolling his eyes. "I found them – _found them_. There's still stuff left around here, and the kid needs clothing, right? There's even some shoes here." He drops the whole load onto the street, and he's definitely _cheated_ somewhere along the way. The clothing is all way too clean and way too whole to have come entirely from the ruins.

Gilo hesitates, and then, at Desmond's nod, eagerly goes to search through the clothes for something clean and warm to wear. Desmond gives Clay a look over him and then nods, gratefully.

"You should change your clothes too," Clay comments. "Hoodie and jeans don't exactly fit."

Desmond hums in agreement and looks him over. "Neither does that," he says. Clay is wearing a suit. Why he's wearing a suit, Desmond isn't sure, but it probably has something to do with the fact that he was stuck wearing jeans, t-shirt and light jacket for a long time.

Clay shrugs and wanders off again, whistling as he goes.

Desmond turns to Gilo. "You should wash before you change clothes," he says. "Come on – let's draw you some water, and I'm pretty sure we can find some soap around here too."

Gilo is a little wide-eyed. It takes half an hour to prepare the bath, using one of the barrels Despond had found in what used to be the tavern along with most of the buckets in the town. Heating the water is too difficult at this point, but the water from the well isn't that cold and Gilo doesn't seem to mind it – so Desmond leaves him to it, with a bar of soap found in the Auditore Villa, along with some linens for drying.

The kid looks like a new person afterwards, and under the dirt his hair is dark brown. The clothes he chooses are a little ill fitting and the shoes are too big, but they're whole and look warm, and the kid seems more than happy with them.

Desmond, in the meanwhile, changes his clothes into Altaïr's robes. It's still not exactly fitting to the timeline, but… Wearing Ezio's robes would've felt wrong somehow, and Desmond doesn't really care for current fashions. It's close enough to pass him as a weird foreigner, anyway, and familiar enough to feel comfortable. It also feels like something he has the right to wear, sort of.

Clay, seeing him in old Levantine white, also changes his clothes, into the exact same design – only in all _black_.

"Really?" Desmond asks, flat.

"It's historically accurate, actually," he says, grinning. "The first French assassins thought white robes were too noticeable, white wasn't that commonly worn in the area, so they made their robes in more appropriate colours, though originally still in the same design. Black was for Master Assassins. Italians did the same, actually – you know, with the robes Ezio got from down in the sanctuary? But that was a while ago, people forgot. Sad how history gets lost, isn't it?"

"Hm," Desmond answers, considering him. It kind of makes sense, and Clay would probably know – and go out his way to _be_ historically accurate, just to fuck with him. "Still think you're taking the piss."

"Taking the piss? You've been hanging around Hastings way too long," Clay says, and grins, unrepentant. "But yes. I am. Suck it."

If Gilo thinks there's something weird about it, he doesn't say – just eats his fruit, and works where Desmond tells him to work. "Can I take some of the fruit to someone else?" he asks, the next day. "There's more than I can eat, and there's someone I know who could use it."

"Sure," Desmond says. "Take as much as you like." He can always make the trees make more.

That's how they get their third and fourth citizens – two of Gilo's friends, a slightly older girl, Fenecia, and a younger boy, Mafeo, both who look about as homeless as he does. Apparently they'd been travelling together, Gilo looking for work and trying to keep the others fed. Orphans of Monteriggioni – not the town, precisely, but the surrounding countryside, which had been sacked and burnt by the Papal forces.

"We're going to need more clothes," Clay comments, as Gilo shows the pair where they can wash the weeks of travel dirt off them. "If this is going to keep up, and it will."

"We?" Desmond asks.

Clay gives him a look. "You know how complicated clothing is to make from scrap? You need sheep for wool, or you need to grow cotton, or flax, you need to process it into string, you need loom to make it into fabric, dye too, if you want to make it nice, and then you need someone to actually sew it into clothing. That's at least four occupations, maybe more, and a lot of time in between. Takes more than a year to process raw materials into end products in this time."

Desmond just looks at him.

"Or you need to buy the stuff from somewhere," Clay says. "For which you'd need money, which we don't have, and also freedom of movement, which considering the town's location and political standing, we also don't have."

"Hmm," Desmond answers. He's not wrong, damn it. "We have enough to manage so far," he says. "We'll figure the rest out when it comes to it."

"I'm just saying – if you want to do this, you need society and economy, and you need to be prepared to manage them both," Clay says, shrugging. "Even Ezio didn't need to build them from the ground up, he had something to start with, a town with some people and some businesses. All he needed to do was finance this and that to promote growth, and the people themselves did the rest. You, on the other hand, got nothing but a ruin and stubborn attitude. And of course," he wiggles his fingers, pointedly. "Which you won't use, because it's _cheating_."

Well _it is_ cheating. "I'll keep that in mind," Desmond says and turns away. "Thanks, Clay. I'm still not going to cheat."

"Tsk," Clay says, and wanders off again.

* * *

With the kids, Desmond fixes up the smithy and then the tailor shop and then pauses to really consider Clay's words and observations. He can keep the kids fed infinitely with fruit if he wants to, but that's cheating too, and they need more in life than magically made fruit – and more than to follow him around, fixing things he points at.

"What do you want?" he asks them, after they've finished repairing the door and it's swinging properly on it's hinges again.

"Place to live, food to eat," Fenecia says.

"Yes, but, after that," Desmond says and motions around them. "You want to live here?"

They share a look and then look up at him and nod, wary but determined.

"You're going to have to learn trades, then," Desmond says and folds his arms. Not that it matters much yet, there's only three of them, but if the town would ever get back to normal, if it would ever have more people… they would need something to bring them money. Maybe something they could do here, make here, and then carry out to sell elsewhere. "Anything any of you can do, you're at all good at?"

The kids share looks uncertainly and Mafeo puts up his hand. "I know how to carve wood," he says. "My Papa taught me… before the soldiers killed him."

That's a start. "Okay," Desmond says. "Let's find you some tools then, see what we can do."

The smithy thus becomes a temporary woodworking shop, as they carry all the metal tools they can find there, and Mafeo picks through them for things he knows how to use. Most of what he knows is basic whittling, really, he can carve little wooden figurines from bits of soft wood, but it's better than nothing.

"Play around, try your hand, see what you can come up with," Desmond says to the rather helpless looking boy, uncertain in his new domain. "Be careful you don't hurt yourself. Make me something nice, okay?"

He's trying to not put any pressure on the kid, but going by the looks of it that's exactly what he ends up doing. Desmond leaves him and the other to it, and goes to poke around the other houses, picking one to fix next. They need a residential house, he thinks – the kids need a proper place to live.

Clay is with the kids the next time he sees them, pointing something in Mafeo's work to the kid while the others watch interestedly. Desmond looks their way just to make sure no _cheating_ is happening, but it looks like Clay is just giving pointers. It's nice to see him contributing, so Desmond turns to the gates instead – there is someone there.

A young man with a bag on his shoulder and a stubborn expression. "Heard there's people here again, looking to fix the place up and resettle," the man says. "Are you taking people in?"

"Sure," Desmond says. "There's no money here and not much in a way of liveable houses, though. But if you want to help us fix things and are good to work for nothing but fruit, then you're welcome. Hopefully soon we can fix up a house for you, too."

That makes the man hesitate a little, chewing the matter for a moment. "Mind if I stay for a while, see how I goes?"

"Not at all," Desmond says, motioning him to go ahead. "What's your name?"

"Manfredo Rosso."

"Welcome to Monteriggioni, Manfredo Rosso."

Desmond watches as the fifth citizen of Monteriggioni wanders inside and then looks over the countryside outside the open gates. It's starting to get late, but there are some lights out there, campfires maybe. Could be more people, or it could be soldiers from Siena or from Florence. Could be anything.

Guess time would tell.

Desmond turns away from the gates, and wonders if he should fix up the barracks next.

* * *

They're probably dead. Not that that seems to matter much, either to Desmond or to Clay. Neither of them eat or sleep or feel any particular call to bother with bodily functions, and there's a sense of unreality about them both that makes them a little detached from everything around them – which makes everything malleable to them. Cheating, as Desmond calls it, is as easy as breathing – all it takes is a thought.

"So, that's a point in the favour of _team reality is a simulation_ ," Clay comments. "If that's your thing."

"It's not," Desmond answers. Sure they can _edit_ stuff, and that's a bit… yeah, it messes with the sense of reality a whole bunch. But whatever that means and whatever that implies aside, that doesn't make Monteriggioni any less important to him, any less meaningful.

Doesn't make fixing up the bank any less satisfying, even if there's no one to actually make use of it, or work in it, or store money in it. As a whole, Monteriggioni has less than a hundred florins within its walls, and most of it is still trapped in all the rubble. Not much of an economy, really, that.

Well, maybe a little bit of an economy. Manfredo brought with him something that works as currency with the earlier citizens, sort of. He has with him honey candy, which he barters with the kids to get them to help him clear out one of the buildings, that's sparking _something_ in the people. There's just four of them, five counting Clay, who doesn't do much, but once the idea of _I can pay you to do this thing for me_ takes root, it tends to grow. Already Fenecia is thinking of how to bribe Gilo to do things for her.

It's nice, seeing and _feeling_ people being people.

"You know what you're doing here, though, right?" Clay asks, while evening settles on the town which is still lacking lamps or lights. Manfredo makes a cooking fire in the smithy and they make a jam out of apples to eat, and that's about it, as far as lighting goes.

"Mm," Desmond answers, breathing in the evening breeze. "How do you think I should go about getting more people here?"

Clay blows a breath, frustrated. "Food, comfort and security," he says and shrugs. "Or whatever. Basics of civilisation everywhere."

Desmond nods slowly, considering. There are areas around Monteriggioni that were used for farming, which had been burnt down by the papal forces, to keep people from resettling. He could re-grow them with a snap if he wanted to. He didn't want to, but maybe he could find some seeds.

Clay holds out a handful of them to him, and Desmond dismisses them with a sigh, pushing away from the baluster he was leaning on. Then he skips over to the next morning. "I'm going to go dig around in dirt."

* * *

Desmond finds some still living vegetables growing in the otherwise weed-covered farms around Monteriggioni. Basic stuff mostly, carrots, onions, beets, whatever. The season is what it is so they're in a mixed state of growth, but the carrots have gone to seed in the literal sense that they're producing seeds, which is kind of nice. Desmond collects them by the fistful and then considers the weed-covered fields.

It's kind of nostalgic – he hasn't done weeding since he was a kid in the Farm and they actually tried to pretend to grow their own food. The Farm didn't have much in terms of fields, just a few vegetable patches here and there, which rarely produced anything good and were tended to only sporadically, but weeding was the most common punishment chore in the place. Desmond did it a lot, probably, since it comes so naturally to him now.

"If Altaïr could see you now," Clay comments, watching him. "Master Assassin robes and all, on his knees in the muck, pulling up weeds."

Desmond throws a muddy rock at him. "If you're here just to bitch and complain, you can save your breath. I'm not going to listen."

Clay blows out a breath and then crouches down beside him. He makes faces. "Yeah, you are," he says, and reaches over to pluck out a dandelion. "You'd pretend not to care, but it would linger and fester a bit, make you feel shitty, which would make me feel shitty."

"Well. Yeah," Desmond says and looks up at him. "So why do it?"

Clay doesn't answer, considering the flower and then reaching over to stick it in the collar of Desmond's robes. "You're starting to teeter on the edge here," he says. "You sure this is the place you want to stick to?"

Desmond frowns at him and then looks away, at the field he's weeding, at the fortress. There's four people, seven fixed buildings, and not much else in there. Majority of the fortress is still in ruins. "I've barely started," he says.

"Desmond, you're literally trying to grow _roots_."

Well. There is that.

"Would it be so bad?" Desmond mutters, digging his fingers into the dirt and digging out another weed, roots and all. He has dirt under his fingernails, and he can _feel_ it.

Clay looks at him quietly for a moment before sighing and then turning to the dirt too, beginning to rip up the weeds in earnest. After a while, Clay pulls up a basket from somewhere for them to start throwing the weeds into, and together they start making pretty good work at the field, before the citizen of Monteriggioni come to join them, Manfredo with a makeshift hoe and Mafeo with a brand new shovel.

They have a carrot patch hoed up and sowed before the night comes. 

* * *

More people come to join them. Manfredo is the reason they come – he goes in and out the town at will, and eventually he brings friends with him, introducing them to Desmond and telling him, "Piero knows a thing or two about building and Francesca can sew, and they need a place to live." Desmond considers them, nods, and welcomes them in before moving onto the next building project – the barracks.

It's going to be a big one, and it isn't enough to just pile up bricks here with a bit of mortar in between and call it good. They need new beams, the floors need to be redone – they need wood, they need materials, they need tools. Axes, hammers, and the like.

"I – I don't think I can manage it," Mafeo admits, wide-eyed. "I made the shovel from a bit of broken plate, it was easy – but an axe? U-uh, I'm not sure…"

Desmond considers the kid, all of thirteen years old and already trying so hard to work as the blacksmith for the town, and concedes the both. "Don't worry about it – keep practicing the small things," he says. Mafeo can make nails and the like, which is helpful. "I'll think of something else."

Mainly he spends some time picking up the bits of scattered coin and whatever other valuable things are still lying about. There's not much, the Papal forces robbed the fortress pretty carefully and left very little behind, but there are some secret caches they hadn't gotten into, and some scattered coins pinned under rubble they didn't find.

A hundred florins is a lot of money, in the end, when you have nothing. Add into it bits of jewellery and the like, it might get them something.

"What we need now is a merchant," Desmond murmurs. "A travelling merchant."

Clay leans his cheek onto his knuckles, watching him. "There will probably be one here eventually, looking for a business opportunity," he says boredly. "Want me to make it happen a little faster?"

Desmond frowns.

"It's not cheating if it's a real person with real goods, right?" Clay asks and closes his eyes. "There's a guy in Siena with a surplus of materials he can't seem to sell locally, he's been thinking of sending his sons out with a cart to see if he could sell to the nearby villages. Could be he gets a notion to come here, having heard a rumour someone's building. Reconstruction projects always need tools, after all, and he's got plenty."

Desmond teeters on the edge for a moment and then sighs. "Alright, fine," he says. "Do it."

The merchant comes around the following morning, with two young guys with swords on their sides and awkward gambesons, and a cartful of building materials and basic goods. While the handful of citizens of Monteriggioni flock to their cart excitedly, Desmond looks through their wares, weighing what he needs and what the town needs compared to what little money he has to spend.

"So you're the new lord?" the merchant asks, looking his robes up and down and drawing mental conclusions. "Fixing up the place?"

"Mm-hmm," Desmond says and brings out a golden bracelet he'd found in the ruins. "You interested in trading for stuff like this?"

It's a good hour of haggling over every little thing, but Desmond comes away with a boxful of basic tools – axes, hammers, chisels, knifes and the like – along with some spools of fabric and yarn, some leather and so on – stuff to make clothes and protective gear out of. He gets some food too and, because most of the people of Monteriggioni are young, he also gets sweets and wine.

"Of course you'd get wine," Clay says.

It's a good night, after that. The merchant lingers and exchanges news with Manfredo and Piero while everyone kicks back and enjoys the first bit of plenty they've had at the fortress. Desmond watches from the side, considering the ruins still left to be fixed, and when Clay conjures them glasses for a drink, he doesn't say anything.

"It's gonna take off from here," Clay warns him. "The word will spread, more people will come, all that."

"I hope so," Desmond says and takes a drink. The wine tastes like gold on his tongue.

* * *

More people come, bit by bit. Mostly the young and the homeless with no better prospects – Monteriggioni isn't exactly a prosperous place to settle in, yet. It's little better than a slum, and with hope of hard work leading to better lives, the brave take the risk and approach him to make it their home. They grow from half a dozen to a dozen, and then to two, and suddenly they have actual workers in the town, people with experience and some skills.

Bit by bit, building by building, Monteriggioni regrows from her ashes. It's faster with more people working, and Clay suggests cheating less and less, as the worst broken buildings are taken down for building materials for the rest, and they get residential buildings, old shops are resettled – and suddenly it looks like they might have an actual living town on their hands.

Desmond is starting to feel the weight of gravity in his knees again.

"It could probably take off on its own now," Clay comments, one night while they watch the main street of Monteriggioni, where Manfredo and the other men are helping to pitch up a stall for potential merchants – more in hope than out of actual urgent need. Desmond didn't tell them to do it, didn't even suggest it – they are just hoping that with a stall ready, they'd get more travelling merchants coming, that the word would spread.

"Mm," Desmond answers.

"You put Manfredo in charge, and he'll figure it out, rebuild it all – become new lord, all that," Clay comments. "They don't need you anymore."

Desmond looks down at that and then leans his elbows onto the baluster.

He can feel it. There's a seed that's been planted – civilisation, society, whatever. There's a sense of community about Monteriggioni now, and it's like a living, breathing thing, a web, a structure that binds the people together. It forms out of acquaintances and professional relationships, and the budding romance between Iacopa and Andrea, which one day might lead them to having and growing kids within Monteriggioni's walls. It's all there now, the basic stuff of culture.

"We could leave," Clay says, with a surprising amount of sincerity.

"And go where?" Desmond asks and looks at him. "Where do we have to go, Clay?"

Clay hesitates at that, looking away, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet restlessly. "Anywhere," he says then. "We could go _anywhere_."

"Yeah, but… why?" Desmond asks and shakes his head, looking back to the town. "Just because we can?"

"Well, yeah. Most people don't need a fundamentally spiritual connection to the places they travel to," Clay points out. "They do it just because they can – and we can do it _all_. Why stick to one place when there's the whole of reality out there?"

Whole of reality doesn't mean much to Desmond, though. Things beyond the fields around Monteriggioni might as well not exist for him. He has no pressing urge to check out if they do.

"Oh, come on," Clay says with a roll of his eyes. "Really? That's a bit – small-minded of you. Literally. What a narrow field of view."

"Helps me see the details," Desmond shrugs. "I like the details. And I like this place. You know, you could go on your own."

Clay sighs at that and leans forward, putting his elbows on the baluster too. "Yeah, but what's the point," he mutters and looks away. "If it's all in _my_ head, then it might as well not be there. If it's in your head too, then at least there's a consensus of experiences."

Desmond considers that for a moment. "Am I confirming your sense of reality?" he asks suspiciously.

"You know how hard it is not to see everything as Calculations when you've been a program for a bit?"

Well. Shoot. "Uh," Desmond says, not sure what to say to that. "I'm sorry. But I still – I do want to stay here. I don't see the point of going anywhere else."

"You don't want to see your dad, Shaun, Rebecca – the Assassins of the future? You don't want to see how it all turns out?" Clay asks, giving him a dubious look. "Aren't you curious at all?"

"It's – it's not that I'm not," Desmond says and makes a face. "It's just…" if he goes there, he won't be able to help himself making things _better_. He'd help Assassins, stall Abstergo, maybe even stop them, and that's a slippery slope he can't see the end of, a whole damn spiral that ends with him either as a superhero or a god, or a fucking tyrant ruling over the Free Will of Mankind with a negligent hand, and that's just… no.

Here, he knows how things turn out – he doesn't need to meddle. Here he can just stay within Monteriggioni's walls, rebuilding bits here and bits there, and it's fine. He knows it's going to be fine. He doesn't need to do anything but what he wants – and maybe what he wants is small in the grand scheme of the universe… but that doesn't mean he doesn't still want it more than anything.

But that's not what _Clay_ wants.

"Where do you want to go?" Desmond asks, looking at Clay, who's watching him, listening to his thoughts.

Clay scratches had his cheek and shrugs. "Elsewhere," he says. "Doesn't matter where. Just – away. I want to go somewhere and do something other than _this_."

Desmond hums. "Do you mind sticking to this time?"

Clay blows out a breath and shrugs again.

"Okay," Desmond says. "I'm not gonna go with you, but there's something I want that's not here. You could go get it."

Clay looks at him, narrowing his eyes. "What?"

"Altaïr's Codex. The Templars took it when they sacked the town – I want it back. And I mean, the original one, not a copy – I want the one with Altaïr's handwork on it."

At first it looks like Clay will decline immediately, but then he thinks about it, _feels_ the shape of the problem. Probably tracks down the pieces in his head, finding exactly where they are in the universe. "It's a little singed," he warns thoughtfully.

"But still around," Desmond says and looks at him. He's gonna do it – it would take him to Rome, and he would go and look in on Ezio, Leonardo, maybe the others – go look in on things he'd never seen before. And he would hunt down the pieces of the Codex, and use them to tie history and future to the present. Desmond nods, satisfied. "Don't cheat where people can see you."

"I won't," Clay says and turns to him, considering him for a moment and then nodding. "Don't lose yourself to the foundations."

Desmond smiles and says nothing.

* * *

Of all the buildings they repair, Auditore Villa isn't one of them. People cast looks on it whenever Desmond chooses between buildings to figure out which one would go next – and when he chooses the former brothel over the villa, he gets some dubious looks sent his way.

It's not the time yet, though. And for all that people call him the _new lord of Monteriggioni_ … he isn't, really. Not that way, anyway. Maybe he would be eventually, maybe he wouldn't, but for now… for now he wants to repair the brothel. Not that anyone would be moving into it, or using it, or… anything.

"It could become a tavern," Desmond muses, while they sort through the few bits of wood they have, to figure out what they could use in place of beams that had burned away. "Would be nice to have a tavern."

"There's that," Manfredo comments. "We don't have much in the way of wine here. Nothing to serve in there."

"Maybe one day," Desmond muses. Would be nice if they could make their own vine. Vineyard would be nice to have, just as a thing. Maybe he'd look into it, once the former brothel is fixed up. Maybe.

They work at the brothel for most of the week, during which Desmond can feel Clay moving about _elsewhere_. He can see and feel glimpses of what Clay sees and feels – it's like Clay is carrying a camera and sending him videos. He kind of is – every now and then Desmond gets assaulted by an image of the Colosseum, or the Vatican, or some other famous historical sight – once, he gets a full mental experience of being surrounded by minstrels, all trying to sing over each other. That one comes along with Clay's shit-eating grin.

He also gets the image of the first Codex page Clay finds, and the tenderness with which Clay packs it away into a pouch.

"Are we ever going to fix the villa?" Piero asks Desmond while they take out the broken windows – the brothel had pretty glass ones, it's a shame they're all shattered. "Isn't it sad to leave it?"

"We'll get around to it eventually," Desmond says and turns away. "Eventually."

Clay flashes him with an image of Rosa In Fiore, and Claudia and Maria sitting on its balcony overlooking the river, drinking wine as they chat with the courtesans in the faint light of the lanterns, and Desmond's heart clenches.

Funny. He didn't even know he had a physical heart, before now.

* * *

There are empty spots in Monteriggioni now, places where buildings used to be, which they took down completely for materials. Desmond considers those empty spaces and figures there is no point leaving them empty. They don't need buildings there – with still less than fifty people, they have more than enough houses for everyone. So… he builds gardens, instead.

With wheelbarrows he and whoever feels like helping wheel in some dirt from outside, and using leftover broken bricks they make raised beds, in which they plant whatever they happen to find. Some of it are flowers that still grow around Auditore Villa, but mostly it's food, berry bushes and whatnot. On their own, people are beginning to farm the fields around the town, even ones Desmond hadn't even looked at.

The seed of community grows and grows – and Desmond feels more and more rooted within it.

Clay is still in Rome when Desmond has the quiet realisation that soon it won't be that he doesn't _want_ to leave. Soon, he won't be able to.

He turns the thought in his head, with the implications it comes with, and then he turns his eyes to the Villa. As another night falls over Monteriggioni, he makes his way up the stairs and in front of it. Behind him the town is still mostly dark, still no lanterns, no lamps, no oil, but it's warmer, more alive, there is firelight in more and more windows.

Desmond draws a breath and goes in. The villa is cold inside, empty, vacant, and Desmond being there doesn't change it.

He goes to Mario's study, winces quietly at the state of it and then cheats his way through the wall where a false bookshelf used to stand, and makes it into the stairwell leading down and into the sanctuary. Everything down there is exactly how he remembers it – all the statutes stand perfect and whole. The Borgia or the Papal Forces never got there, they never saw the statues – if they had, Desmond doubts they would've been left standing and whole.

Altaïr stands proud and fierce, and a couple feet taller than he did in life, as Desmond steps up to him and faces him – wearing his clothes, which makes the whole thing even weirder in Desmond's head.

"I'm sorry I didn't come to your time," Desmond tells him quietly. "It could've been fun too. But I love this place more, and death made me selfish. I deserve to be a little selfish, I think. Don't I?"

Altaïr doesn't answer, just stands there, and Desmond lowers his eyes, shaking his head. Altaïr never knew him, not like Ezio had. He'd talked to the future through his memory disks, but he'd addressed the unknown and the uncertain, and he'd done it selfishly, too. He'd wanted to be known, remembered as he was and for what he did, not for what people said about him.

Desmond doesn't want to be remembered. He just wants to _be_. But there's that… issue. If you have the ability to do extraordinary things, if you have the ability to help people, and then you don't…

Desmond sighs and sits down on his knees, still looking up at Altaïr.

With his powers, with his ability to edit reality, he could do anything. He could conjure a mountain of gold, he could make all the people of Monteriggioni impervious to sickness, he could probably make them live forever. And that's just the basic stuff. He could bring in the knowledge of the future, even things he never knew himself – with a snap of his fingers he could produce a library of 500 years of foreknowledge, and with it completely upturn the centuries that produced it. He could do… anything.

But at the same time, he's a guy who was born five centuries from now, and everything that happens now, all the people who live now, they're all… they were all dead from that perspective. No one from the 16th century survived into the 21st, and that's the way it's always been. Even things like culture, history, knowledge… they don't last. Every generation is different, every generation develops new things. That's how it should be. If Desmond reaches out and pulls stuff from the future into the past, then…

Drawing a breath, Desmond closes his eyes and lets himself see it, how it would turn out, if he did.

It's… not pretty.

For a while it would be. He could make Monteriggioni great in just a few years – give it wealth, fortune, knowledge, power. It would lead to unrest, though, there would be people who wouldn't respect the privilege they had, others from the outside who would want to claim it for their own, and ones inside who had it and understood it would want to use it against those without. In less than a half a decade, there'd be war. And sure, with a wave of Desmond's hand they could win that war, but… then it would never end.

They would have too much of an advantage against those around them. And if they shared that advantage, then those they shared it with would have that same advantage against those around them who didn't. It would either go on forever, or Desmond would have to change the whole world, just skip it ahead to the stage of the 21st century and more, and it's not like the 21st was perfect by any means. And at that point, if he changed this time to that extent… what would be the purpose for having come here in the first place?

He could make the world better and worse, he could change it and keep it as it is, or… or he could just let it be what it is. Let it do its own thing. Let it live and breathe.

Desmond releases the breath he was holding and looks up at Altaïr. "What would you do?"

Altaïr had a similar power, with the Apple. It was on a smaller scale, maybe, but he had it and he used it. But he'd never used it on other people, except when there was no other choice, because… even if he could make things supposedly _better_ , it was only on the framework of his own thoughts. What he, Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, thought was better. And Altaïr better than most knew how subjective that was. What one man thought was peace and prosperity, another would see as slavery and tyranny.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Everything _should_ be permitted. So, Altaïr had never made things better, not with the Apple anyway, just with his hands and blades…. but he used the Apple for other things. For learning, for armour crafting, that sort of thing. He was still an Assassin, and he still had a duty to do.

Desmond is rather ignoring that aspect of his existence, except for where he isn't. He is wearing Altaïr's robes for a reason. And yet… "I've seen enough for one life," Desmond says quietly. "I've done my part."

Hasn't he?

He leaves the sanctuary not much after – though he doesn't leave it empty, he leaves it with finality.

* * *

"I thought I told you not to get lost in the foundations."

Desmond blinks and looks up from the foundations of what used to be another house – they're taking it apart to put in another garden. Clay is standing by what would be the entrance of a trellis enclosure where they'd be growing grapes, hopefully, one day in the future. He's not alone.

Ezio is standing behind him, eyes shadowed but a little wide under the beak of his hood.

"Clay," Desmond says, frowning. No wonder he didn't feel Clay returning – Ezio is a… blind spot. "I – didn't realise you were on your way."

"Which in and of itself says a lot," Clay says and tilts his head. "You're grounded."

Desmond hums and brushes the dirt off his hands, while around him the men and women who'd been helping cast nervous looks at Ezio. His clothes are different – the new Brotherhood uniform, as it is, differs a lot from the black robes he wore before… but he's still recognizable as the _previous lord of Monteriggioni_.

Desmond kind of misses the time without a heart – because damn, this hurts.

"What are you doing?" he asks Clay.

"Don't look at me," Clay answers, folding his arms. "He followed me home."

Desmond gives him an incredulous look and then looks at Ezio.

It takes a little effort but – he sees it.

Ezio had spotted Clay in the Vatican, breaking into the house of a noble in possession of a couple of Codex pages. The Borgia had handed them out like trophies, to give their compatriots in the Templar Order a sense of victory over the Assassins, while in the meanwhile Ezio began burning their towers and chipping away at that sense of victory. Ezio hadn't known about the pages, not before he saw them in Clay's hands – and he would recognize them, of course. He recognized Clay's robes too.

Clay had considered leaving him in the dust and letting him wonder… but then he'd thought it would be more interesting to just lead Ezio back to Desmond, and see what would happen. Whether Desmond would freak out, would finally get the idea of _leaving,_ or… or if it would settle him forever. At this point, Clay isn't sure which possibility he likes the least, but ultimately he'd be fine with whatever. In the end Desmond would Desmond, and Clay would have to contend with it. Might as well speed the process up.

"Well?" Clay asks, and motions between Desmond and Ezio.

"I –" Ezio says and then steps forward. "You seem to have an advantage over me."

Desmond looks at him, and sees the way they'd travelled – Ezio doggedly keeping pace with Clay, stealing horses when he did, making camp when he did. It had forced Clay to travel by the conventional methods, which Clay had hated until he enjoyed it. There's been a lot of quiet between them. The few times Ezio had managed to ask a question and Clay had answered, Clay had been his usual unhelpful self. It had left Ezio in a state of confused agitation, but he'd kept on following, because Clay kept leading him on. On, and on, until Ezio realised where they were going.

Until they'd come home.

Desmond sighs, waving to his people to keep on doing what they're doing, fixing up beds for future grapes. Then he motions Ezio to follow. "Come on," he says. "Let's talk."

Clay falls in step with Ezio, whistling as he comes, and Desmond wonders if it's finally the time to repair the Villa.

-

"So, you are… gods?" Ezio asks, finally, after a long, tense moment.

Clay hands him a glass of wine and Desmond sighs. "No," he says.

"Yes," Clay says. "I mean, technically, in the framework of this stage of human development, that's _exactly_ what we are. That's the technical language that works in this time. The word _Admin_ doesn't really mean anything here."

Desmond gives him a look and sits down across Ezio. Around them the former brothel, future tavern is quiet and barely lit with a small fire in the fireplace, and a stumpy candle on the table in between them. "Okay, fine, but that's… still wrong," Desmond says. "The word _god_ implies religion and faithful followers, worship and all that – that's definitely not applicable."

"Could be if you wanted it to be –"

"Clay, you're not helping," Desmond says, shaking his head, and looks at helplessly confused Ezio. "We were humans once. Things happened – things like the Apple of Eden, but… worse. We're something else now."

Ezio turns it over in his head and takes a drink to stall for time. "And what is your purpose in Monteriggioni?" he asks slowly.

"To live," Desmond says and shrugs. "That's all I want to do – to live here."

"As a – a _man_?"

"Yes."

Clay lets out a noise at that, not quite agreeing, and drags a chair to the table, taking a seat on it backwards, arms folded over the backrest. "He's reworking himself back into reality," he says and casts a look at Desmond. "Rebuilding Monteriggioni is helping him rebuild himself. He's becoming human again."

Desmond shrugs. "Yes," he agrees and looks over the tavern. "I hope so."

Ezio looks between them, still confused and still tense, and he still doesn't fully get it, but he seems to be taking them for their word. "I see," he says and looks away.

Desmond looks at him and sighs, wishing Clay hadn't brought him. Explaining to Ezio the fleeting, paper thin nature of reality wouldn't really help anyone – how thin the veneer of _tangibility_ really is. It would just mess up the man's sense of self and reality and fate, and not do him any favours. Meeting them is already messing with his sense of self.

"Ezio," he says. "We want nothing from you. You have no duty to us, or even to Monteriggioni. As much as this place was part of you, it's alright for you to leave it behind." He already had, after all – and he was fine as he was. Making him feel guilty for things he couldn't really affect wouldn't help anyone.

"I left and did not look behind," Ezio murmurs. "I am… conflicted about seeing it being rebuilt, I admit – but I don't have a say in it, anymore."

Desmond looks down at that and sighs. "No," he agrees. "You don't. But there's one aspect you have a say on."

"The villa," Ezio agrees. "You haven't rebuilt it."

"And I won't, if you don't want me to," Desmond agrees. "It belongs to your family – I won't touch if, if you don't want me to."

Ezio is quiet for a moment, taking another drink, and then another, and then setting his glass down. "I don't know," he admits. "I will… I need to think about this."

"Take as long as you like," Desmond says and stands up. "We've rebuilt some houses, and the barracks are being used as a communal house for those without their own places yet – you can stay there, or here, if you'd like."

"Thank you," Ezio nods.

Beside them Clay looks between them, and then stays seated as Desmond turns to the door. "Catch up with you later, Seventeen," Clay says.

"Mm-hmm," Desmond agrees.

Neither of them told his name to Ezio.

They probably wouldn't, either.

* * *

Ezio wanders around Monteriggioni, talking to people and looking in on the changes, and his _mixed feelings_ hang like a cloud over him, a radiating aura Desmond can feel wherever he goes. Desmond himself concentrates onto finishing the trellis garden – they don't have any grape vines to actually grow there, yet, but eventually he thinks it will be one of his favourite places. The building next to it would become a brewery, and they'd have their own wine – and the catacombs under the town would be converted to wine cellars. He can't wait.

"So, this is it, huh?" Clay asks. "Even Ezio can't make you move."

Desmond shrugs. "Maybe after."

Clay sighs and leans against the wooden trellis, watching him work. The citizens have wandered off to do other things, and there's just the tidying up to do, which Desmond is happy to do on his own. It gives him a nice sense of _task completed_ , to clean up the tools and sweep the ground afterwards.

"Are you staying?" Desmond asks, bundling up the gardening tools into his wheelbarrow.

Clay says nothing, looking at the wheelbarrow. He snaps his fingers at it, and what had been a makeshift repair work rebuilds it into a brand new wheelbarrow, with a much rounder wheel and probably proper bearings and everything. It definitely looks like it will roll better.

Desmond doesn't undo it.

"No," Clay says quietly. "I don't think I will stay."

Desmond lowers his chin. He knew that Clay isn't comfortable in this time, it's not his time, but… maybe he'd hoped that Clay would learn to like it, would learn to love it... would stay for his sake. Selfish of him, that, probably. "Where will you go?"

"Back to where we came from," Clay shrugs. "Dunno if I will rejoin the Assassins, probably not, but that's… that's my ideal time. I wanna go see my dad, my mom, and… make a _difference_. And I will damn well use these powers to do it, for as long as I have them. I will make things _better_.

Desmond sighs. "That's a road paved with good intentions," he comments.

"So is what Abstergo is doing, and their highway goes all the way to hell," Clay shrugs. "They have advantages others don't have – money, people, influence, technology – and I don't see you accusing them of cheating, even though they got all of that by abusing Isu tech. We're abusing Isu tech too, just more… internally."

Desmond considers that and hums. "Well, when you put it like that," he says and brushes dirt off his hands. "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"

"Not unless you decide to become immortal," Clay shrugs and looks at him. "Are you?"

"Guess we will see," Desmond muses and looks at him. "You're not leaving _right now_ , right?"

"If I stay now, I will keep on staying until this," Clay motions around them, "wears me out. Propping my sense of self on you is not exactly ideal, anyway. Best I go."

Desmond swallows but nods. "Okay," he says quietly, because he wants to ask him to stay, and knows that even if he does, Clay wouldn't, but he also would never stop thinking about it, never stop wondering if he should've. Desmond is not going to do that to him. So, he says, "okay," and hopes it will be.

* * *

Desmond is _alone_ when Ezio finds him, later that night. Monteriggioni has lamps now – Clay's parting gift – and Desmond isn't sure if it's that he can't bring himself to delete them, or if it's that he simply _can't_ , anymore. He hasn't dared to try.

"Where is Clay?" Ezio asks.

"He left," Desmond says, resting a hand on the Codex and stroking his fingers over the Brotherhood's symbol on its cover. "He made his last mission to deliver you to me, and he left. He won't be back."

"I'm… sorry," Ezio offers.

Desmond nods and looks at him. "How did you like the changes I made to the town?"

Ezio carefully makes no expression, though the _unease_ still hangs over him. "It is different," he admits. "But then, it would have to be, I suppose. The town was badly devastated."

"That it was," Desmond agrees and sighs. "There are still houses we will have to tear down, I think. And I'm not sure what we're going to do about the walls, if we even can repair them. That's a bit too big of a task for our small little commune."

"I'm sure whatever you decide to do will be for the best of the town," Ezio says and looks backwards and at the villa. "Would you really leave it in disrepair at my say so?"

It had been in disrepair in future, Desmond muses. "Yes," he says. "I would."

"And if I asked you to tear it down?"

"I wouldn't be happy, but I'd do it. I would build something else in its place," Desmond says and looks above Monteriggioni, to the rising moon. "Maybe a library, or a school." Most of the people in Monteriggioni are formerly homeless vagabonds – most of them don't know how to write or count. It could be… something to do, later, to teach them that, and maybe some other things too.

Ezio glances at him and hums, a deep resonant note. "I would like that," he decides and nods. "Fix the villa, turn it into a school."

Desmond draws a breath and releases it. "Alright. Sounds like a plan," he says and turns to face Ezio. "You don't mind it, then?"

"That you took the town for yourself?" Ezio clarifies and looks over the town. "I have regrets, but it is not my place to mind such things, anymore. I lost Monteriggioni, and I have little interest in reclaiming it now. If you can do it justice, then I wish you all the luck in the world."

"Thank you," Desmond says. "There will always be a place here for you, though. If you ever need it… Monteriggioni will always welcome you home."

Ezio lowers his chin at that, his lips pressing together as he swallows. "Thank you," he says and his voice is rough. "Perhaps one day."

He doesn't think he will even survive long enough to consider it, privately suspecting he's living on a borrowed time of a few years alone – but Desmond knows better, he can see the potential of it. One day, once Ezio's fights and quests were done and he'd be finally ready to settle down with his young wife, he'd consider places to settle, and Monteriggioni would return to his mind and he would think, perhaps… perhaps this would be a place to raise a family in, after all.

Desmond looks away before he can betray that thought – and the future that follows. "Perhaps one day," he agrees and smiles. Maybe he would tell Ezio his name then. Maybe.

The future is hundreds of years away, and Desmond might never become inhuman enough to not miss it, but that's fine. He has a home now and all the time in the world.

He can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> "There is a crack in everything  
> That's how the light gets in."  
> -Leonard Cohen, Anthem
> 
> So this was basically crack idea of "What if Desmond had game powers over Monteriggioni, but the game was a City Builder?" And, uh. yeah. This was written.
> 
> Hope you liked it!


End file.
